John Charles Wolf

The bodies under there, in the corridor, were at an ends; by the time each person entered the airport, their desires were all set about the rooms like a seasoned, wet palette.

Except the one woman, dressed in white.

The lights on the ceiling formed a row behind her, but the experience drew a long blank. She finally discovered herself, leaned against the sole pillar, as the figure approached. Lines and dots and things could be heard vaguely in the background, but there in front of her was a realcharacter. He handed her a strange pamphlet, and one…two hundred dollars. She stared into his eyes.